Her Angel, His Artist
by Aspen-SiredBySpike
Summary: Jace finally gets a look at Clary's sketchpad and is surprised by what he finds. Implied JaceClary.


**A/N: This takes place somewhere during City Of Bones. No specific place, just somewhere before the chapter "The Mortal Cup". Implied Jace/Clary. Read and review? Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Mortal Instruments or any of the characters.**

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**Her Angel, His Artist**

Just a peek was all he wanted. Jace stood in the doorway to Clary's room at the Institute, eyeing up the sketchpad that was sitting on her bed, less than ten feet away.

It wouldn't hurt to look, would it? Sure, she had told him that it was private and if he respected her at all, he would leave it alone; but he was Jace Wayland, and had no disregard for the rules.

He had taunted her before that it was probably full of torrid fantasies about him, or old fashioned movie posters for romance movies, the main characters substituted with pictures of him and her. At the time, he had been teasing her, pushing her to the edge, wondering how long he could keep going before she would snap, but now he was truly curious.

Leaving his comfort zone in the doorway, Jace strode into the room, never deterring form his course. Reaching out, he picked up the sketchpad and plopped unceremoniously down onto the bed. Without opening it, he stared at the cover, so forbidden it was sweet. What did she have in here that she wanted to keep private? Did she spill her darkest secrets out onto the pages through ink and graphite in the form of drawings, or was it full of nothing but nonsensical doodles?

Curling back the top corner of the pad, he fanned his way through a couple of pages, seeing only bits and pieces of what looked like tree tops, church spires, and the occasional cup handle. About halfway through, a mess of tightly knit lines caught his eye. Flipping back, Jace opened the page, his mouth going wide in shock as he stared at a meticulously lifelike drawing of his bust. From the shoulders up were the only bits of body that were recorded . His skin was bare and lightly shaded, while curling forms made their way over his neck and shoulders. The Marks matched the ones under his shirt more than they should have. It was almost as if the artist had been the one to brand him in the first place. His eyes shone with a darkened intensity while the curves of his face were startlingly well defined. A tangle of disheveled hair sat on top of his head, while a halo floated a few inches above, shine lines rising out from all angles.

Now he was intrigued. Flipping to the next page, he found himself again, shirtless with a pair of fully spread angel wings protruding from his back. This sketch was just as detailed as the first, every line, every curve. If it was in color, it could have easily been a photograph.

Turning yet another page, Jace found another mini version of himself. This time, his back was facing out, the same pair of feathery wings coming out of his back, as he looked over his shoulder, a cocky grin plastered on his angel face.

That was how it went for a good deal of book. Another turn of the page, another picture of him. There was a picture of his standing on the rooftop of what appeared to be the Hotel Dumort, another of him sitting behind his piano, while other were of him in various places around the Institute like the chapel, or the kitchen. In all honesty, he was flattered that Clary would pay so much attention to him- she had to have paid him a fair amount of attention to have detailed his portraits so closely. It was also very confidence-building to find that not one picture of the mundane graced the sketchpad's pages. Other than inanimate objects, he was the only human life form to sit lightly on the thin sheaf of cardstock.

Smirking, he closed the book and laid it back down near the foot of the bed before fixing himself a spot buried among the pillows at the top. After getting to know her, Clary had become his distraction, his acquaintance, his charge, his friend. And now she was his artist. Her glowing face haunted his dreams ever since first setting eyes on her; but there was no way he was going to let her know that. Well, not yet, anyway.

She was his artist, and he was her angel.

Folding his arms behind his head, he turned to gaze out the window at the impending sunset, thinking of nothing but how the colors strikingly resembled the artist's- _his_ artist's -hair.


End file.
